Were I Not Frail and Half Broken Inside
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: He was frail and broken, inside and out, in all the ways that a man can be; his body, his soul, his heart—were not anything like what they used to Ryan returns to his apartment with Jenny after Claire's


**Characters**: Jenny & Ryan Hardy

**Pairing**: Claire Matthews/Ryan Hardy

**Universe**: Post-season 1/ Season 2

**Disclaimer**: The title belongs to Czeslaw Milosz.

**Summary**: He was frail and broken, inside and out, in all the ways that a man can be; his body, his soul, his heart—were not anything like what they used to be. | Ryan returns to his apartment after Claire's death.

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He stepped across the threshold of his apartment like a guilty mourner entering a graveyard—hesitant, careful. Aware of the fact that, with one wrongly-placed step, he could very well be treading on the bodies of the deceased.

Lucky for him, there were no bodies left here. He still had his and Molly's had fled and... and the other one...

He cleared his throat, hoping to scatter his thoughts as he had the air in his immediate vicinity, but it barely worked. His shoes did not make a sound as they made their way across the wooden floors, but screams echoed in his mind. His screams, her screams, Molly's promise to finish what she'd started once they were truly alone...

He shut his eyes, and for a second, it was almost like he wasn't there at all. For a second, he was the guilt-ridden mourner in the graveyard; hesitant, careful. But he was still taking every wrong step, still stomping all over her.

"Are you sure you're ready to be here?"

Jenny's voice cut through the complete silence of the room, and he snapped his eyes open, finding himself glaring at the floor and hoping to quiet her with sheer force of will. He didn't want her to be here. He hadn't wanted her at the hospital, either, but—like always—he'd needed her. The doctors advised against him leaving and in his state—and with his history—they'd wanted a family member to be there to sign off on it. To show he had a support system. Someone to take care of him when he fell down.

Jenny hadn't been so callous as to point it out, but he knew anyway, that she resented him for the implication. _You only call when you need something._

He could have just as easily told her, _You only call when you're feeling guilty._

Something told him that he'd be getting many phone calls in the months to come.

"Ryan, I really don't think you're ready to be here." Her voice had risen slightly in pitch—he could tell she really was worried now—but he couldn't bring himself to answer. Just as he couldn't bring himself to look at her. She was about to break, and he if he made eye contact with her, she would.

And then she would cry and apologize and spout heartfelt nothings that he couldn't stand to hear.

_I know how much you loved her._

He shut his eyes; he felt like burying himself in the ground, too, just for that thought. It was one of the first things she'd said to him when he'd opened his eyes and found himself, not bleeding out on the floor in his apartment, but safe in the hospital. After _Oh, thank God, you're awake_and _Ryan, I'm so sorry_and _They tried but it was too late_and—there it was, the worst for last—_Oh, Ry, I know how much you loved her. I know._

Ryan Hardy hadn't hit his sister with the intention of hurting her since his age had started being identified by two digits instead of one, but in that moment, when she'd said that, he'd wanted to hit her. He'd wanted to hit her so hard and so it was good, really, that he'd been too disoriented at the time to use his arms properly.

She would've never come back if he'd done that.

And he'd needed her to come back. There was no one left besides her that would've taken him out of the hospital that early.

_I have to be there,_he'd told her, staring at the white sheets around him so he wouldn't have to meet her red-rimmed eyes. _I have to go, Jen._

She'd stood still beside his bed, and was very quite for a long time. Finally she said, _Okay._

He was out of the hospital in under an hour.

They arrived at his apartment less than twenty minutes after that.

A half-hour before, his still-bandaged wound had begun hurting. He'd been halfway between the check-out desk and the exit at the time, but he hadn't said a word. Freedom was within reach, and he knew if he admitted to the pain, she'd take him back, and then they would never let him leave again and he _had to be there._

"Ryan, I think this is too soon. You should've stayed at the hospital. I could've come here for you—"

"I needed to get clothes," he told her. He was quietly surprised with how normal his voice sounded. He thought it might be hoarse from disuse, but apparently not. The rest of his body, however, was. The stitches holding his abdomen together hurt so badly he was afraid he'd torn at least two or three.

"I could've gotten you clothes," Jenny replied. He knew from her quiet, nervous voice that she knew what they were talking about—knew that she was walking on thin ice—but he gave her no leave.

"No, you couldn't have."

"Ryan—"

He turned away without another word, leaving hers hanging in the dead air as he headed to his dresser on the other side of the room. With every step, he felt like he was pulling another stitch loose. He'd forgotten how many he had. Ten? Twenty? How many more could he break before blood started spilling through his clothes?

He clutched onto the top of the dresser when he finally reached it, taking a few seconds to breathe through his clenched teeth. He could feel sweat beginning to break out on his forehead. When his labored breathing returned to normal, he wiped away the evidence with the back of his hand.

He wished he could so easily do away with all his memory.

_I know how much you loved her._

Without really seeing, he began pulling open drawers and rifling through their contents. He grabbed anything that was black-socks, shirts, pants. He slammed each drawer shut when he was done with it, only to realize a moment later he needed it open, and then repeated the process. Over and over and over again.

He didn't realize he'd never find what he was looking for until she called out to him.

"Your suits are in the closet, Ry," she reminded him quietly. "Not the dresser."

He stopped what he was doing immediately, letting the truth of her words wash over him. _Oh,_he knew she wanted him to say. _Right._Quickly followed by, _Thanks, sis._

He said none of it. He knew she didn't expect him to—she _wanted_him to, that was the most she could do—but he had never, ever done what she'd wanted, so why in the world should he start now?

He passed through the space between the dresser and the closet silently, like a ghost, like a demon. Like a thief in the night.

Like a murderer who hid beside the fridge, and stole knives when he turned away for a second.

"I can do this for you, Ryan."

He opened the closet's door, and his eyes were met with an assortment of navy and black fabric. Which to choose...

"On the far right," Jenny instructed quietly.

He didn't need to look to know which it was. His hand reached over, skimming over the material. He'd only worn it once.

"If it was good enough for Ray," she began importantly, but soon tapered off. It seemed she realized while she was speaking just who she was speaking about. "I'm sorry," she whispered then.

It was the first time in days that she'd apologized for something she had actually had control over.

"I just meant... It's a good suit. It's... You look nice in it. I think she'd—" Her voice broke off suddenly, and a sob attempted to fight its way out of his sister's throat, but she clapped her hand over it quick enough that all he heard was her sharp intake of breath. "Damn it," she whispered when she'd found some modicum of control. "Shit, I'm sorry." He could hear tears in her voice and so he did not turn to look at her. "I'm so sorry, Ry."

He took the hanger holding the suit he'd worn to his brother's funeral off the rack. He looked down at it, not certain it would fit correctly anymore. It had been twelve years since the South Tower had buried their brother for them; twelve years he'd stood in this suit beside his sister and watched as they'd lowered Ray's empty, flag-covered coffin into the ground. Would such a suit still fit after twelve years?

Did time really change anything at all?

"Let me take that," Jenny whispered, hurrying to his side to take the hanger off his hands. "Shoes," she whispered, looking around frantically as if trying to find a way to escape a sinking ship. He didn't have the heart to tell her there was no escape. She'd already slipped below the surface. And besides, he was in the deep, after all: no light, no air, no sustenance. No way to warn others, let alone call for help. He would die down here, but did it matter? It wasn't like there was anything left on the surface for him to live for.

She quickly found the shoes under the bed, and grabbed a pair of socks from one of the drawers he'd left open, and then she was in front of him, her makeup streaked and her eyes swollen.

"I'm going to take you to a hotel, okay?" She didn't pause to wait for his answer. "You won't sleep if you stay here and you can't fit in my apartment. I'll find a hotel near—near the gra—" She broke off, swallowed the word, and then picked a gentler euphemism: "The church, I'll find something near the church, okay? Then you won't have to walk far with that." She gestured to his stomach, and when he looked down, he half-expected to see his shirt soaked with blood.

Due to some stroke of what had to be luck, there wasn't even a speck of red. When his eyes rose back up to hers, she'd wiped away some of her ruined makeup and was pressing her lips together firmly so that her chin wouldn't shake. She was watching him intently, and it took him a minute to realize what she was waiting for: his protest. She'd laid down a very concrete plan to take care of him, and for some reason, he hadn't yet told her off. She waited, clearly nervous, but when he didn't refute her proposal, she smiled—just with the edges of her lips—and then soon looked away, as if remembering that smiling had just been outlawed.

She moved to his side, wrapped an arm around his back, and helped him move from the bedroom to the front door. Though he tried not to, it was near impossible not to lean on her as they made what felt like a very long trek across the relatively cramped apartment and out to the elevator. It had been easier for some reason, walking inside. He wondered why it was harder to leave—he hadn't particularly _liked_revisiting that place...

It wasn't until they were at the hotel, and Jenny was booking a room with one of the small establishment's overly-chatty receptionists, that he knew why.

It wasn't about where he was coming from, but where he was going.

He hadn't even been listening to their conversation, but he'd heard the woman ask—_So are you two here in the city on business or for pleasure?_—and he couldn't listen to Jenny struggle to find a vaguely appropriate answer.

He spoke before she could, looking the perky receptionist in the eyes, and watching as the smile fall off of her young face as he told her bluntly, "A funeral. We're here for a funeral."

The woman stared at him, momentarily shocked silent, and then her eyes flitted over to Jenny's face. Ryan knew she'd see the truth of the matter there; Jen's face had always been as easy to read as a book with large print. He didn't look at either of them faces as he muttered, more to and concerning himself than anyone else, "And then we're leaving."

Jen's soft intake of breath beside him told him all he needed to know—she would want to talk about this later—but he didn't acknowledge her. She could stay, if she wanted. She could go back to Miami, if she wanted.

But he would not, could not, stay.

_I know how much you loved her._

And Jen _had_known. She had known and Parker had known and Weston had known—even Donovan had known. Joe and Amanda and Annabel and Molly; they had all known. Everyone had known.

He wanted to go somewhere where no one would know. Where no one had any idea, where no one knew who he was or who she was—_who she had been_, he forced himself to think—he wanted to go to a place where no one had ever heard of that escaped serial killer and his cult of murderers. If there even was such a place anymore.

For now, though, none of that mattered, because before he did any of that, he had to go to the funeral.

He had to pay his respects. Had to look at her one last time. Had to say his last goodbye.

_I know how much you loved her._

That was the only comfort, really: that she had died knowing, just like everyone else, how he'd felt. How he still felt. How he would always feel.

_I love you._

When he had a moment alone with her, later that next day, he whispered those words to her. He waited, but she didn't say them back. He looked, but she didn't smile. She didn't acknowledge that she heard him in any way because she _hadn't,_because she was _dead_, and, in the end, it turned out that the love he had felt for her, the love he still did feel for her, and the love he would always feel for her—it wasn't really a comfort at all.

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**Author's Note**: Don't hate on me, hate on Kevin Williamson the doucher. ...Okay, you can hate on me, too. Leave it in the comments.


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